


Avoir de la Chance

by lastdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Multi, Polyamory, Slavery, Threesome - F/M/M, lots of porn if you're patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bossuet is a chance-changeur, one who has the power to give good luck to others and take bad luck on himself. He has belonged to the Joly family since he was a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14403528#t14403528
> 
> It sort of grew.

One morning, when Joly was seven and still going by Jean Joly, his father came to wake him instead of a servant.

“Get up quickly, I have something to show you,” Monsieur Joly told his son.

“What is it?” Jean Joly had asked, not yet aware that his father disliked being asked questions. He received no answer, and dressed with the help of a servant. 

When he was done he ran downstairs and into the kitchens for a roll. The cook was a large, rough woman, like all cooks seemed to be, but despite her gruff demeanor she was always happy to turn a blind eye when Jean came darting through to sneak treats.

M Joly caught Jean by the scruff of his neck at the other end of the kitchens and marched him down the steps and into the carriage. 

The spectacle he wanted his son to see was the auction. He did not like to be asked questions, but he was more than happy to detail the advantages of chance-changeurs to anyone who would listen. 

“But the really good ones go for hundreds of louis!” he despaired. “If we’re very lucky— ha, lucky— we’ll be able to acquire one for less than a hundred, but it won’t be top quality.”

“What for?” Jean asked.

“What for! What for! They say that the best chance-changeurs pay for themselves in less than a year! To have a charme in the house is to be safe from injury, from illness, from unemployment, from divorce, from death itself! With a charme, even you could hold down a tutor for more than three months.”

Jean was young but still conscious that he had been insulted, and he asked no more questions.

As they pulled up to the auction house, Jean got on his knees on the bench to press his forehead to the window glass and look out. In front of the building, a long line of carriages deposited their occupants onto the steps. Around the side, a line of children no older than Jean were led in through a side door. They were cuffed together by their left wrists.

Jean looked at the chance-changeurs in their line and saw only girls and boys.

M Joly leaned over to see what his son was looking at. “Ah, there they are. Fresh as they come, those charmes— a shame we can’t get them directly when they’re weaned from their dams, but I suppose they wouldn’t be worth so much if they couldn’t speak and work as well. Well, come on.”

They had pulled up to the steps of the auction house. From the front, the line of children was impossible to see. The carriage door was opened for them and they stepped out to join the people walking up the steps. Over the door, ornate lettering proclaimed LEUR CHANCE EST À VOUS.

Inside the building was a spacious room filled with gold leaf and tall windows. At the front, society families sat around tables with glasses of wine and light hors-d’oeuvres. Behind them were rows of chairs that grew progressively meaner as they approached the back of the room. The very last rows were merely scraps of wood cobbled together, behind which the very poorest people stood.

These last had little hope of their object, but sometimes a chance-changeur was especially weak, or deformed, or badly injured, and couldn’t be sold to the elegance at the front of the room. 

Jean and M Joly passed them by on their way to seats at the middle of the room, far from the tables at the front, but a safe distance from the paupers in the back.

As the seats filled up, Jean watched everyone look first towards the front of the room with envy, and then the back of the room with relief. At last all of the seats were full of people hoping to acquire charmes for their houses. Most of them would be disappointed. A man in a neatly tailored woolen suit walked to the middle of the stage and all the voices in the room fell silent.

“Welcome! Welcome to the finest auction house in Paris. Here you will find the best chance-changeurs in all of France, and perhaps the world. We breed from the finest free stock—“ There was a disgruntled murmur from the back of the room, where the manners were not so dignified. “Yes, I say free stock. You question our methods; I challenge you to find a better charme anywhere else!”

A young girl was led onto the stage from a door at the right. The child was immaculately clean and dressed in white for the auction, and on her left wrist was a silver menotte stamped with the auction house’s seal.

“For our first lot,” said the man, “we have a female, age eight, moderately intelligent and highly skilled. We will begin the bidding at fifty louis.”

That first girl sold for almost ninety louis. Jean quickly grew bored with the proceedings. Instead, he spent his time tracing the gold floret motif on the ceiling with his eyes.

As time went on, the best of the stock was sold, and the prices began to decline again, dipping back below a hundred louis when skill level became only “moderate.”

“Jean, we got one! Male, age seven, moderately skilled, and only sixty louis!” M Joly shook his son’s shoulder to get his attention. “Jean, are you even paying attention?”

“Yes, father,” Jean said. He had been looking out one of the tall windows at a flight of sparrows circling over the rooftops.

When the auction was over they were escorted backstage to collect their property. The boy was the same age as Jean, but taller because of Jean’s fine-boned structure, and his hair was darker than Jean’s auburn. He was dressed all in white, and his menotte shone.

“What’s your name?” Jean asked.

“Don’t ask it—“ M Joly protested, but the boy was already answering.

“Lesgle,” he said.

“Eagle? Amazing!” Jean exclaimed. Lesgle smiled back.

M Joly took his son’s hand to lead him into the next room, where an operator stood by a machine similar to a printing press. “Joly,” he instructed. The operator laid out the letters J-O-L-Y in the tray, pulled the drum down, and then turned the crank. A strip of silver was fed through the machine, and it came out curled and stamped with the name JOLY. Not yet a menotte, it might have passed for a cuff bracelet.

In the next room there were three mages against the wall, each with a line stretching out in front of him. M Joly led them to join the shortest line. The lines moved slowly, and Jean and Lesgle began to whisper to each other. When Jean was able to make Lesgle laugh with a joke about the mages' elaborate robes, a proud smile split his face.

“Jean, what are you doing?” M Joly said exasperatedly. “Leave the charme alone.”

But as soon as he looked toward the front of the room again, Jean and Lesgle continued their surreptitious play behind his back.

At last they reached the front of the line, and Jean looked up at the mage in his high-backed chair. He looked, Jean thought, exactly as a mage was supposed to look. He was dressed in the purple robes, he had incomprehensible symbols in gold around his neck, and his fingers were covered in rings. His beard was long and white. He looked down at Jean and Jean quavered a little, intimidated, but Lesgle seemed unbothered.

“The band?” the mage said. M Joly handed the silver strip to the mage and moved Lesgle to stand directly in front of him. “Wrist?” Lesgle held up his left wrist, and the mage adjusted the silver loop around it. “Let the luck of this chance-changeur pass to Joly,” the mage intoned.

The silver strip glowed brightly for a second, and then sealed into a single continuous ring. It had become a menotte. The first menotte, the one stamped with the seal of the auction house, sprang open. The mage caught it and deposited it in a basket of the same. It was done.

Outside, the carriage was already waiting for M Joly. Jean, excited to finally be free of the stuffy interior, ran the distance to the steps and leapt up onto the bottom one. For a moment he was sure he had missed the jump, but he found himself standing surely and proudly on top of the step.

Behind him, Lesgle stumbled and fell, scraping his hands and staining the clean white of his auction house clothes. He picked himself up and brushed himself off without a word, unsurprised.

M Joly smiled.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

Jean Joly was nine. The Joly family had hired a new tutor shortly after purchasing Lesgle, and Jean was progressing quickly through his subjects. This tutor happened to hit upon exactly the right ways to explain things to Jean, and the right words to teach him to allow him to further his own understanding. Jean found himself with free time exactly when he needed to devote his mind to his studies. 

Lesgle often slipped and fell, ran into walls and furniture, and tore holes in his clothing, but that was normal. He was just a clumsy boy, his limbs growing lanky and awkward as he got older.

Jean, on the other hand, was small for his age and slight, and his father despaired of his ever being strong and hale.

“Instead,” he told Jean one day, “you must become an intellectual.”

“What do you mean?” Jean asked his father.

“You are to go into law, or philosophy, or medicine, since you can never go into the military or the Sorcellerie. You need not decide which you will devote yourself to now, but you will begin your studies on anatomy tomorrow.”

“But father—“ M Joly gave his son a hard look. “Okay.”

As it turned out, Jean hated anatomy. There were too many parts of the body to keep track of, and each had a new name to learn, and had to be categorized by what it was made of and what it was for and how it interacted with those around it. He stared blankly at the diagram of the heart’s chambers for several minutes, forcing himself to absorb it, until finally he gave up. Jean ceased trying to study, and ran to play in the garden instead. 

“Jean!” cried Lesgle, smiling. Happily, he had just been let out from his work in the kitchens at the same time. Jean felt himself blushing a little at Lesgle’s attention.

They played together for a few hours, until the sun began to sink and twilight fell. As they were heading in, Lesgle slipped and stubbed his toe hard on the edge of a step. Jean saw him bite his lip and shake it off, so it must not have been so bad.

Inside, they found that M and Mme Joly had just made up from a small tiff, and Jean averted his eyes from their kiss, making retching sounds under his breath. Lesgle laughed and went to his own dinner at the servants' table.

The next day, Jean joined his tutor in the library for his lesson, and found the man wearing the sort of smile that made Jean anxious. 

“We’re going to start our lesson with a quiz on yesterday’s work,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Jean.

“Yes sir,” said Jean, trying not to let his nervousness show. He set the paper down on the table before him and got out a soft lead pencil. It took a long breath for him to brace himself, but finally he was able to open his eyes and look down at the sheet.

It was an unlabeled diagram of a human heart. What good luck!

Only a minute later Jean had filled it in and handed it to his tutor, holding back a smile. He knew he had done well; this was the section he had studied. His tutor’s eyes skimmed over his work once, and then a second time to be sure.

“Well done,” he said, smiling at Jean. “This is excellent work. Now, we shall proceed to the structure of the lungs and stomach.”

The rest of the lesson went swimmingly, Jean still flying high on his success. He had achieved a perfect score on a quiz when he had barely studied at all. He could hardly believe it, and he was almost giddy with pride. As soon as the lesson was done, Jean practically ran to the kitchens to find Lesgle and tell him about it.

The kitchens were not like themselves when Jean arrived. 

Usually abuzz with activity, they had stopped almost entirely. Two maids were on their knees, scrubbing at the floor, which was splattered— Jean felt his stomach turn— with blood. The cook was heating saltwater to make a compress, which she carried over to a place where two more servants were grouped around someone who was crying and whimpering with pain.

Jean came closer and saw—

Lesgle.

“Lesgle! What happened? Are you alright?” Jean came to stand behind Lesgle, which was the only space not taken up by maids.

“Yes, I’m alright,” Lesgle gasped. He sniffled a little and began to cry more quietly than he had been before. 

“Boy was peeling carrots by the sink, ended up peeling his thumb into the bargain,” said the cook, lifting Lesgle’s hand to remove the bloody rag and replace it with the clean, wet one. For a moment, Jean could see the bloody gash where an inch-long strip of skin had been carved from his finger.

“I’ll be alright, Jean,” said Lesgle reassuringly. “I just slipped is all. I’m always doing that, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Jean faintly. He staggered backwards and only barely caught himself against the counter.

He had always been aware, at some level, the Lesgle was a chance-changeur, that his family had bought and paid for him at the auction, that Lesgle wore the menotte on his wrist to tie him to their family. He had always been aware, but he had never known.

Only minutes past, Jean himself had received an incredible stroke of good luck. What had he escaped? Censure, punishment, and much more extensive studies for the week. The tutor might’ve informed on him to his father; that would’ve meant a few lashes with a switch. Avoiding that was incredible good luck.

But everyone knew good luck didn’t come from nowhere. 

It came from charmes. It came from Lesgle.

And if Jean was taking good luck from Lesgle, then Lesgle must be taking the bad luck.

He had refused to study, he had been stubborn, and for what? He got a little bit of free time, but Lesgle, his friend, got his finger skinned for Jean’s laziness. Jean had as good as wielded the knife himself. 

Jean felt sick. He put a hand to his mouth, and only barely kept from vomiting.

“Are you alright, son?” one of the maids asked Jean. “Is it the blood? I can get you a bucket if you’re going to be sick.” Jean shook his head but did not put his hand down. How many times had he done this? How many times had he gotten unexpected good? Made a jump he shouldn’t have, caught a ball that was going to go over his head, run with sure step on wet grass? How many things were just good luck?

And Lesgle— how much of his clumsiness was real? Had he ever truly fallen, run into a wall or a table, missed an easy catch? Had he ever been clumsy at all? Was every stumble and mistake just the bad luck he had to take?

“This is— this is his bad luck,” Jean managed to say.

“Well, what did you think it was?” the maid asked.

Jean fled the kitchen.

Sitting on his bed with his head between his knees, Jean tried hard to control his breathing. It was just so horribly unfair! What had Lesgle done to deserve this? He was so kind and funny and such a good friend, all the time. Why would anyone allow him to be hurt like that just so Jean and his family could have a little good luck?

Lesgle found him an hour or so later. He came to sit beside Jean and wrap a bandaged hand around his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Jean.

“You are! All of this is! Why is everything so wrong, I don’t understand!”

“What do you mean?” Lesgle asked. Jean’s hand shot out and grabbed at the menotte on his other wrist.

“This. I just—“ Jean drew a breath and said bitterly, “I just passed an anatomy quiz. And you lost a square inch of skin. This is isn’t fair! It’s so wrong!”

“Yes, I know,” said Lesgle calmly.

“How can you— how can you accept it? How are you not as angry as I am, or more, how can you not care? How can you be okay with it?” Jean almost spit the words, so full was he of fury.

“I’m not,” answered Lesgle. “I don’t like getting hurt all the time, or making stupid mistakes in front of people. I don’t like the menotte on my arm. But the simple fact is that there’s nothing I can do about it. It doesn’t help me or anyone if I’m wasting my energy being angry about it.”

“What do you do, then?” Jean asked, feeling lost.

“Mostly, I do my best to help you and your family. The less help you need, the less I’m forced to give it by luck.”

“I’m going to do that, too,” said Jean. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You never have,” Lesgle said. It warmed Jean in a way he couldn’t explain to know that Lesgle trusted and understood him. “Here, I’ll tell you a story.”

“What kind of story?” They shifted so they were leaning against the head of the bed, somehow without letting go of the arms they had around each other.

“A story my mother used to tell me, before they took me for individual training with the auction house.”

The story he told was this:

When the Sun shines, men know where the sure paths are, but in the Moonlight, the ways are confused and it is easy to misstep and fall. This was not always so. Once, the Moon was brighter than the Sun, and when it shone, there could be no faltering. 

Seeing that the Moon’s light was charmed with good luck, a powerful mage cast a spell to hold the Moon in place over the earth, that he might receive its light at all times. But he forgot that he was merely a man, and the Moon was a light of Heaven. The spell he intended to fix the Moon in place reached it, but instead it broke the Moon and shattered it into millions of pieces, scattering them across the sky.

The light of what remained of the Moon was tainted and made useless, but the scattered fragments remained pure. They became the Stars.

The Moon could no longer give luck to those in its light, but there was a Star for each life on Earth. Every person who was born fell under the light of just one Star, and sometimes felt good luck and sometimes bad. There were a few people, special people, who fell under the light of two Stars. They discovered that they could share their light with others. As a consequence, they would suffer a moment of darkness.

The mage saw in this that he had not utterly failed. The Stars were smaller than the moon had been, and weaker. He devised a way to take the light that fell from two Stars upon one life, and fix it upon others— the menottes. 

“But my mother always told me,” finished Lesgle, “small or large, a Star is still a light of Heaven, and it cannot be trapped forever. ‘One day,’ she said, ‘you will feel your own Stars’ light.’ I believe her.”

“I don’t think the luck comes from stars,” said Jean.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Lesgle. “What I believe is that someday, this has to get better. I don’t believe I’ll be wearing this menotte forever.”

“I won’t let you,” promised Jean Joly.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

When Jean Joly was ten, his studies in anatomy were progressing apace. They were still difficult, but through sheer force of will he had caused himself to enjoy the subject. Medicine was his preferred subject of those his father had offered him, anyway. Jean spent almost every spare moment working and studying, because laziness wasn’t a good enough reason to cause harm to Lesgle. 

Jean couldn’t think of anything that was a good enough reason.

Shortly after Jean discovered the direct effect of his failure on Lesgle, he had taken to keeping a record of every such incidence. The first entry read as follows:

Fortunum: easy anatomy quiz [Jean]  
Sumptus: removal of one square inch of skin by knife, right thumb

After this first event, it had taken a few days for Jean to learn to connect causes to their effects. Sometimes the two didn’t happen at the same moment, and Jean had to be patient to put two and two together. Once he had, more entries were quick to follow.

Fortunum: carriage missed a pothole [all]  
Sumptus: large bruise by carriage door, right shoulder

Fortunum: light morning hangover [Monsieur]  
Sumptus: lump by frame of cabinet, forehead

Fortunum: resolution of argument [Monsieur and Madame]  
Sumptus: public humiliation by stumbling into a puddle

Fortunum: small windfall by inheritance from a distant relation [all]  
Sumptus: finger broken by doorjamb, left fourth finger

Every word in the record served only to incense Jean further. None of the luck that came to his family merited the cost to Lesgle. After the third repetition of Fortunum: light morning hangover, Jean screwed up his courage and his anger both and went to see his father.

“You drink too much,” he declared firmly. “You ought not get drunk so often.”

“Excuse me, boy?” M Joly replied slowly.

“You heard me. You need to stop.”

“I must have heard you wrong. You couldn’t have been telling your father what to do.”

“I could, and I did. Father, I mean it.”

“And I’m going to mean it when I take a switch to your backside. Get over here, boy—

“What’s going on in here?” Madame Joly swept into the room, fresh from her closet and glittering with false diamonds.

“Boy thinks he can tell me what to—“

“He needs to stop drinking—“

Both Jean and his father had spoken at the same moment, and Mme Joly looked between them with a little smile on her powdered face. “How funny you two are! But you mustn’t forget, dear, the boy’s meant to be a doctor someday,” she smiled the same smile she had directed at Jean since he was four. “Allow him his worry for your constitution, the stars know I share it. Go on, child, go play.”

Jean left the room angry. His frustration was not with his father; no, he had expected the reaction he had gotten. His mother, however, had come in and diffused the tension. She had saved him at exactly the right moment.

Fortunum: saved from the switch [Jean]

He ran to find Lesgle.

“Lesgle, Lesgle, are you okay?” Jean cried out, almost before he had entered the kitchen. He found him washing fruit in a tub by the sink. 

“What’s wrong?” Lesgle asked Jean.

“Fortunum,” he answered. Lesgle just nodded in understanding and held up a reddened forearm, beginning to blister. His washing water must have started out much too hot.

“Sumptus.”

Jean clenched his eyes shut against angry tears. How many times would this happen? How many times would his family hurt Lesgle just to resolve their own problems? Jean looked at the damage on Lesgle’s arm, and wished he had gotten the lashing after all.

Two months later, Jean was awakened by a loud crashing outside his room. His eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly. Was there someone in the house? A familiar pained groan sounded through the hall, and Jean was out of bed without a second thought. He flung the door open and scrambled down the hall until he found Lesgle crumpled at the bottom of the stairs to his garrett.

“Lesgle!” he whispered as loudly as he dared, kneeling down beside his friend. Lesgle lifted his head to look blearily at Jean’s dark outline.

“Jean?”

“Come on, Lesgle. Come with me. What happened?” Jean got one of his own thin shoulders under Lesgle’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Together, they walked the few steps down the hall to Jean’s room. By the time they reached his bed, Jean was panting with effort and Lesgle with pain. 

“Fell out of bed—“ Lesgle grunted as they laid him down. “Came to see if you knew why, and next thing I knew…”

“Stars above, where have they gone?” Jean whispered with horror. ‘Going out’ had been all his parents would say. Had they come across some danger? Jean worried for them almost as much as he worried for his friend— what sort of escape would require this much pain from Lesgle? How much could luck really do? Were they safe?

“I think my wrist is broken,” said Lesgle. Jean turned to the table beside his bed and fumbled to light a match. His hand shook a little, but he managed to light the oil lamp. Jean instantly regretted flooding the room with light.

“I think you broke more than that,” he said. Hard lines of bruising littered Lesgle’s bare chest and arms. In a few places, the impact had been hard enough to split skin. A large, dark lump was forming on the side of his head. His wrist was, indeed, bent at a painful angle and swelling quickly. “Let me get you some ice.”

“I’ll just stay right here, shall I?” said Lesgle with a rueful smile.

Jean hurried down to the silent kitchen and grabbed a cloth. He drew his nightshirt close around him and darted through the door, across the short stone path, and into the ice house. It was so cold inside that he could feel his lips turning blue almost immediately, but Jean pressed determinedly on, gathering chipped ice in his cloth and wrapping it up. He fairly ran back up the stairs to his room.

“Lesgle?” he asked as he entered.

“Not dead yet,” answered Lesgle.

“Here, let’s put this on your wrist.” Jean helped him move closer to the wall so that Jean could sit on the side of the bed facing the room; he would not allow any possibility of further harm tonight. As gently as he could, Jean pressed the ice to the swelling at Lesgle’s wrist, wincing at the hiss of pain Lesgle could not keep in.

“Thank you,” Lesgle said softly as the ice began to do its work.

“I could hardly just leave you,” Jean protested. Then a thought recurred. “I just worry— If you’re this bad… what happened to my parents? Are they alright?”

“I hope so,” said Lesgle. Jean suddenly and acutely felt ashamed. Once again, he was so distressed by the life of a chance-changeur that he forced Lesgle to comfort him, even hurting as he was. He put a hand on Lesgle’s unmarked shoulder and squeezed with light pressure. He leaned in closer.

“You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure we get you the very best doctor there is, and I won’t leave you until you’re all well again.”

“Thank you,” said Lesgle. He began to drift into unconsciousness, but Jean stayed alert beside him for hours. He kept the ice on Lesgle's swollen wrist for a long while, and then pressed it to the lump on the side of his head until the ice had melted to nothing. Then he took the wet cloth and dabbed it at the injuries on Lesgle’s body, wiping away the blood and cleaning the damage the best he could. 

The feeling of Lesgle’s fragile skin under Jean’s hands filled him with a tender, protective emotion that seemed to swell his heart in his breast. Could this be mere friendship? It felt stronger than anything Jean had ever felt for those he called friends.

In the small hours of the morning, Jean could stay awake no longer, and curled up at Lesgle’s side to sleep.

When Jean woke the next morning, Lesgle was gone. It took only a minute for him to slip entirely into a panic, breath coming quickly but not seeming to do any good. He looked around frantically. The oil in his lamp was almost entirely burnt out and there was a definite impression of another body in the bed; last night had been no dream. 

Jean darted out into the hall and dashed up the stairs. He threw open the door to the garrett.

Lesgle was there, along with M Joly and a doctor. Jean’s father was standing impassively by while the doctor inspected the various cuts and bruises littering Lesgle’s body. There was an ice compress on both wrist and head, and the wrist appeared to be splinted.

“As I thought; only one rib broken. The others are just bruised. I’ll just— is this your son?” The doctor turned to look at Jean, who had come to sit beside Lesgle. His breath was only just beginning to slow.

“Yes,” said M Joly absently.

“Does he have a nervous complaint?” the doctor inquired.

“No, he is simply unused to the sight of injury.”

“Hm. You ought to get him used to it then, Monsieur Joly.” He turned back to Lesgle. “Right, as I was saying: I’m just going to wrap this rib, and then we can discuss my fee.” It was the work of only a couple minutes, and then two sets of men’s footsteps echoed down the stairs into the house proper.

“Are you alright, Lesgle?” Jean asked once they had gone.

“I’m going to be fine in a few weeks, he said.”

“Where were you this morning?” Lesgle gave an odd half-smile and sighed.

“Jean, it wouldn’t do for a charme to be found in bed with the master’s son.”

“What do you mean?” 

Lesgle just smiled again and shook his head. After a few minutes he laid down to rest and recover, and Jean tiptoed down the stairs to give him his quiet.

“Look what he charged!” Jean’s father’s voice echoed down the hall to where he stood.

“Why, what do you know! We got twice that much last night!” That was his mother; she sounded almost gleeful. Jean’s interest was piqued. Where had they been last night? They seemed to be alright, now.

“I know, dear. Maybe we ought to go for cards and dice every night, if it can pay for the doctors so easily.”

Fortunum: money won gambling [Monsieur and Madame]  
Sumptus: one rib broken and several bruised, broken wrist, large bruise to head, left side, and extensive bruising everywhere else

Jean Joly ran outside as fast as his legs could carry him and vomited into the bushes.


	4. CHAPTER THREE

Over the next six years, Jean Joly recorded only those exchanges of luck that happened because of him. It hurt to much to write down every thoughtless agony his parents inflicted on Lesgle. Instead, Jean threw himself into medicine. He came to enjoy the science as he devoured everything it could offer him, but he did not study it for his own benefit. 

It was the ability to take care of his dear friend, it was an excuse to spend time with him even as his studies grew more demanding over the years. It was for Lesgle, like everything else Jean did.

As Jean grew older, his parents came to respect him more. His father started to offer him advice on how best to deal with women. His mother surreptitiously offered him better advice on the same topic.

Jean had neither the heart nor the courage to tell them that he could not imagine a woman he would like enough to marry.

Both his parents listened to him on financial matters, and health issues, and they heard his advice when the death of the a maid necessitated the hiring of another. Jean’s opinions came to have weight in his family, except when it came to Lesgle. He had tried every persuasion he could think of to convince his parents to live, if not scrupulously, at least more carefully. They had not listened yet.

Instead, Jean had to figure out when they intended to go out— drinking or gambling or merely wandering, he no longer asked— and then brought Lesgle down to his own bed, where he could keep him safe.

One such night, prevented from falling and injuring himself, Lesgle awoke with a terrible fever. His skin burned under Jean’s hands and shivered even with layers and layers of warm blankets. Jean was scrambling for fever cures when suddenly Lesgle spoke in a voice rough with sickness:

“Just pick the first one you can think of.”

“What? What if I’m wrong?”

“It’d be good luck if you were right,” Lesgle explained.

“Luck—“ Jean shook his head quickly. “No, Lesgle, I don’t want to hurt you!”

“How can you? You’re trying to cure me. I’m not able to let you fail. What can I do but get well?”

“I suppose…” Jean said, biting his lip. “I suppose we could try that.” He reached for the first remedy for fever available and carefully measured a dose for Lesgle. Within a few hours the fever had broken and was beginning to cool, but a horrible thought had occurred to Jean. “Look at me, Lesgle,” he said. “Just looking at me, what would you guess my constitution to be?”

“You’re not a delicate boy anymore,” said Lesgle.

“No, I’m a delicate young man. I look like I ought to get sick every other day, but I never do.” Jean said bitterly.

“Fortunum?” Lesgle guessed.

“What else could it be?”

“Maybe you’re stronger than you seem.”

“Or maybe I’m still taking from you, even when I’m trying so, so hard to keep you safe.”

“Jean,” Lesgle said seriously. He sat up in bed and beckoned Jean closer so that he could look him directly in the eye. “If it takes a little sumptus to keep you well, I am more than willing to pay it.”

“Willing or not, you should get to choose!”

“Jean, I agree with you exactly as much as I have every other time you’ve railed against the world on my behalf, but could you save it for when I’m healthy?”

Jean sighed and slumped in his seat on the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t be putting you through this. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“Why don’t you read to me? Whatever you’re studying?” Lesgle moved in a languid stretch and laid back down with his arms behind his head. Looking down to hide his flush, Jean pulled the blankets back up to keep him warm.

“It’s only history right now,” he warned as he pulled the text out.

“Good, it’ll help me sleep.” The words were indeed calming, until the invalid suddenly jerked alert again. “What do you need?” he asked.

“What?” Jean had been paying most of his attention to Lesgle, and was hardly conscious of the words he was reading.

“I heard my name,” Lesgle said. Jean looked back down at his page— there, indeed, was his name, or something like it.

“No, you didn’t. You remember what I first called you?”

“L’aigle, of course,” said Lesgle.

“There is a man here called L’aigle de Meaux.”

“Really?” There was an amused light in Lesgle’s eyes. “In that case, I ought to tell you that I was born in Meaux.”

“You weren’t,” Jean said. It seemed to much of a chance to be true, but then, he was speaking with a chance-changeur.

“I tell you I was,” Lesgle countered. “But let’s hear this man’s proper name. Surely he wasn’t called Eagle all the time.”

“Bossuet. Apparently he was a great orator.”

“Bossuet…” Lesgle paused, seeming to turn the name over. “I quite like that, maybe I ought to keep it.”

“Can you do that?”

“Can I not? It’s half mine already. Your father still just calls me charme when he has need of me— only you would need to change anything. What say you?”

“If you like, Bossuet,” said Jean. He was happy to call his friend anything he wanted to be called, especially at that moment. He was too much amazed to raise any issue.

Jean could barely remain calm knowing that Lesgle— or Bossuet, or any name he chose— was suffering because of whatever his parents were out doing, but here was Bossuet, placid as a lake, happy to lay in Jean’s bed and listen to him read a history text. He never complained, no matter how badly he was hurt, and he never let Jean spend too long in worry, either. He was intelligent and he trusted Jean so much and he could see what was wrong with the world without being overwhelmed like Jean was—

Put simply, Jean was in awe of his friend. Jean had a few other friends, but his feelings for them did not even begin to compare.

It was not the first time Jean had wondered if what he felt for Lesgle was more than friendship— and the answer had never really been ‘no’— but it suddenly seemed very important to tell his friend how he felt.

“Lesgle— Bossuet— I—“ Jean began.

“What is it, Jean?” Bossuet asked. The nervousness in Jean’s heart must have been evident on his face, and he struggled to school it, if only to be reassuring.

“It’s— You know I’ve always cared about you, right?” Jean said, not sure how to say it. He couldn’t make himself make eye contact.

“Yes,” said Bossuet. He sounded like he was smiling a little.

“I just, I wanted you to know that I care about you a lot, I like you a lot, I—“ Jean took a deep breath, tried to figure out what words to use. “I’ve never taken care of you because I felt obligated, I’ve always felt…” Jean trailed off, stymied.

“I know, Jean Joly,” said Bossuet. He sat up to stroke a gentle hand through Jean’s hair and tuck it behind his ear. Jean felt his breath catch and his face flush in response. 

“Well that’s— that’s good, Bossuet,” stuttered Jean. 

“Hey look, the name’s sticking!” crowed Bossuet. He smiled widely and withdrew his hand to punch the air. Jean missed the touch immediately.

“Rest, you invalid,” Jean Joly said, pushing him back down onto the bed. “You still have a fever."


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

Two years later and officially a man, Jean Joly was going to attend medical school. He had already secured rooms in the Latin Quarter and a place on the school roster, but he was reluctant to leave home.

He had tried, as he so often had before, to persuade his parents regarding Bossuet, but they would not be moved. Mme Joly had expressed concern for her son’s dependence on a servant, and a charme at that; M Joly had cited studies that showed that a charme’s effectiveness increased when it remained in the home it served. In the end, there was nothing Jean could say to convince them.

Leaving home meant leaving Bossuet.

He put that day off as long as he could, but eventually the decision was taken out of his hands. His father came to wake him in the morning instead of a servant.

“The carriage is yours today, to move your things to your rooms at the school,” he said, without preamble. After a moment he added, “You’ll need to get it all done today, I need the carriage for a trip tomorrow.”

“Yes, father,” Jean said, resigned. He avoided Bossuet all morning as he packed and loaded his things into the carriage, hoping to delay the moment when he finally had to say goodbye. Having packed lightly, he was ready to go by noon, and returned to his room to glance around one last time. He felt oddly adrift, seeing his space empty of all his things.

“You weren’t thinking of going without saying goodbye, were you?” Jean spun around at the sound of Bossuet’s voice behind him.

“No, never! I wouldn’t do that, I—“ He stopped as Bossuet’s mouth twitched to hold in a smile. “You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

“Always,” said Bossuet. He smiled at Jean, and it was only a little sad. “I came to see you before you left. I wanted to… give you something to remember me by.”

“What do you mean?” Jean asked. He couldn’t accept anything from his friend— Bossuet had little enough to give, and Jean had never been comfortable with the material inequality of their relationship. “You don’t have to give me anything,” he tried to reassure.

“I know that,” said Bossuet. He was still smiling as he stepped closer to Jean, coming close enough that Jean had to look up at him. Jean was no longer short, but Bossuet had grown tall. “It might be a while before we see each other again, so I thought you ought to know, in so many words, that I love you.”

“Bossuet, I—“ Jean’s mind was a whirl, trying to process and answer all at once. He ended up saying nothing at all, because Bossuet took another half step closer and all of a sudden they were kissing. It was dry and soft and before Jean could gather himself enough to really respond, it had ended.

“Goodbye, Jean Joly,” said Bossuet, and then he left the room.

“I think I love you too,” Jean said to the empty air. “But I suppose you knew that.” He absently brought his fingers up to his lips but didn’t touch them— he was savoring the echo of his first kiss.

Almost unconsciously, Jean straightened his jacket and left the room for the last time, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. He walked down the stairs and out the front door, and then looked back up at the house in which he had grown up. It was still home, but only because of the chance-changeur living in the garrett. Jean regretted that their goodbyes had not been longer, but he knew that it only would have made it harder to leave. He signaled the driver to go, and watched his home disappear down the street.

Bossuet had only shared Jean’s bed when he was most likely to be hurt, but that night, Jean could feel the empty space on the mattress beside him. He touched his fingers to his lips and remembered the promise he had made nine years ago.

Being a student, particularly a student of medicine, was a new and different experience for Jean. He spent a great deal of time in classes and lectures, and more still in studying, but he found himself with unclaimed hours of the day for the first time since he began anatomy studies at nine.

At first, he filled these with studying as well, being unwilling to risk any need for luck in his exams, but before long he found that this simply wasn’t necessary. Jean was rather brighter than most of his class, which was a pleasant surprise. He was also at a loss for what to do with the spare hours in his days, which was less pleasant. He spent time trying to learn about the state of chance-changeurs, but they were rare enough that he could find few students well-informed on the topic, and none who recognized the injustice they faced as he did.

During one such free time, Jean was wandering around the Latin Quarter, exploring and looking for somewhere he might find a decent meal. Every now and then he would look in somewhere and imagine Bossuet’s comments on the place, but none of them seemed very promising.

That is, until he opened a door and discovered a revolution on the other side.

A young, blond man— Jean saw with some pleasure that there was a man in the world who was more slender and more effeminate than Jean himself— was standing on a table and rousing the whole room with a clear, powerful voice. He spoke only a few words on the topic Jean most wanted to hear, but the rest was no less moving.

The man’s voice compelled its hearers to listen, and Jean heard the same fury that filled his own soul whenever he thought of Bossuet’s injustices. He was rooted in place.

Jean would have stayed quite happily there to hear this speech for the rest of the night, but it ended in only a few minutes. The man got down from the table, collected the red jacket he had shed, and moved to slip out of the cafe. One who spoke such sedition could not remain long in one place. 

Jean Joly followed him.

The man was clearly experienced in avoiding pursuit, but Jean was quick, and he had— though he regretted it— Bossuet’s luck on his side.

“Wait!” he called. The blond man darted around a corner, and Jean followed after him, only to find himself shoved up against the brick wall with a knife at his throat.

“Who are you?” the man demanded, touching the knife threateningly to Jean’s throat. Jean’s mind spun with terror. To escape such danger, what damage would have to be done to Bossuet? The same cut? A fall? A burn?

“Please, please don’t try to hurt me, it won’t work, you’ll just hurt my friend, my—“ Jean breathed quickly and tried to string words together. “My best friend in the world is my family’s chance-changeur, and I wouldn’t allow him to be hurt for anything. Please.”

“Who are you?” the man asked again, putting the knife away. “I won’t hurt you and bring danger on an innocent, but I don’t trust people who follow me.”

“My name is Joly. I just wanted to talk to you.” The man looked skeptical. “I believe every word you said. I wanted to hear more. I want to know how to help my friend. He gets hurt so often, on my family’s account, I can hardly bear it. I don’t know how he does.” The man softened at the sincerity in Jean’s tone.

“I am truly sorry for my suspicion, citizen. I’ve had… more than a few police tails, recently. My name is Enjolras.”

Jean followed Enjolras to a different cafe quite near his rooms, a little thing called the Musain that he must have passed a dozen times already. They passed through the cafe proper and into the back room. Inside, a few men around their age were talking and laughing and drinking at different tables, but everything fell silent in a moment as they entered. 

“This is Joly, he is a friend to us. My speech was successful and otherwise uneventful,” Enjolras said, and everything resumed as if it had not stopped. He began to lead Jean toward the back of the room, and said, “You’ll want that table. Most of us are in law because the schooling is cheap and almost indefinite, but R studies at the Sorcellerie. He’ll know a great deal about any topic you care to name, but take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“Is he a liar?”

“I'm a drunk and a cynic, which is the same as a liar to dear Apollo,” said a new voice.

“You insult my understanding and yours; I know you do not truly think me so narrow-minded.” Enjolras said, sounding very patient.

“Only, you wish I were high-minded like you, which is a kind of narrow-minded. Are we recruiting children, now?” The other, R, gestured with a wine bottle as he spoke, but did not slur despite the empty bottle already lying on the table.

“I am not a child!” Jean exclaimed.

“Joly, let me handle this—“

“Yes, dear Joly, let the grown-ups speak!”

“Grantaire! Would you have the whole world believing your untruths about me?”

“I would have you believe the truth about yourself, that you are not, in fact, the Apollo Belvedere crowned with light.”

“I never said any such thing!”

“Then I have saved you from turning yourself to stone, for all your words are truths.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Are you too drunk to help a friend of our cause?”

“The minute I drink too much to be helpful, I assure you I will signal. I shall pass out and make the table ring with my own skull. Come, what grievance can Dionysos mend?” He set down his bottle on the table and turned expectantly to Jean. As Jean sat, Enjolras stalked away, the picture of frustration.

“I— he—“ Jean felt a little intimidated by the show he’d seen, and he didn’t know where to begin.

“An angel of wrath, breathtaking in his fury,” Grantaire sighed, watching Enjolras go. “What more can we mortals ask?” Jean heard the gentle mocking in Grantaire’s tone, saw the sad sincerity in his eyes, and suddenly understood Grantaire quite well.

“He called you R. Your name is a pun,” Jean realized a minute later.

“Oh yes,” said Grantaire, lighting up. “I like you. Here, have a drink.”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not?” Grantaire seemed genuinely confused.

“If I drink, I won’t get a hangover,” Jean explained.

“Never? That’s incredible luck,” Grantaire said enviously.

“It’s luck bought with pain to someone I care for. Which is why I’m here.”

“Ah, I see. I suppose you won’t be interested in any of the entertainments I can offer, then. I shall have to prove Enjolras wrong yet again; I cannot help you learn much of anything about chance-changeurs. I can, however, introduce you to the loveliest creature ever to set foot in the Sorcellerie.”

“When? I want to help my friend, if I can.” Jean was impatient to learn, though he knew it was pushing to try for too much at once. Even the chance of running across Enjolras would have to be paid for. 

“Tomorrow, if you like. However, as tonight I find myself without a bed, I must ask— how much room have you tenanted?” Jean saw to what the question tended, and answered that instead.

“You can have the spare room for the price of your help,” he said. The haste with which he accepted this near-stranger into his space surprised him a little, but Jean found he liked Grantaire even against what he had thought was his inclination. Drunk or otherwise, Grantaire was quick-witted and good-humored, and kinder than he let on. They talked and laughed a while longer, and though Grantaire couldn’t make up for the gap where Bossuet ought to be, Jean felt a little less lost, a little less lonely.

That night, with a gently sleeping drunk in the next room over, Jean Joly slept better than he had the whole time he had been in the Latin Quarter.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

Bossuet,

I hope you’re doing well, and my parents aren’t being too rough on you.

I’m still getting used to school, but everything’s manageable. More importantly, I have a roommate from the Sorcellerie now, and he says he can introduce me to someone who will know how to help you. I’ll tell you more when I learn it. As of now:

Fortunum: Encountered a revolutionary group with the same beliefs as me

Was not killed by the leader

Currently living with the leader’s cynical admirer

Not sick even after that last rain soaked through my clothes

I should be able to come home and visit before too long. I wish you could’ve come with me, I think you’d like it here. I miss you.

Jean

 

Jean Joly,

I’m perfectly alright, aside from a broken toe and a persistent cough. I’m more worried that you associate yourself with people you think would’ve killed you— though I haven’t had to pay for anything like as much luck as you seem to have had. Have you considered that he never intended to kill you?

Sumptus: a truly embarrassing rip in my clothes, right in front of your parents

[I don’t think that was luck]

the broken toe

this delightful cough

I think that’s everything that came from you, in same order. I have, of course, assorted bruises from your parents, but they’ve actually been staying in more, recently. I think they miss you. I miss you too, and I hope you can visit.

Bossuet

 

Jean sent his reply in the morning, before Grantaire had woken up, and then found himself at a loss. It was a Friday, and he had no classes, and almost no work to do. He had just pulled out a medical text and aimlessly begun to leaf through the section he was studying, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Who could that be? Jean wondered. He had no friends outside of Les Amis, and they had just met the night before. Was it a friend of Grantaire’s? He went to answer the door.

“Hello, Joly,” the mage on the other side greeted him. She stepped inside without being asked.

“I’m sorry, who are you? What are you doing here? How do you know my name?”

“I know everything, of course. For example, I know your best friend is your chance-changeur.” Jean froze. Some things about him were deeply private and important to keep secret. What else could she know about him? And how did she know it? Mages were powerful, everyone knew, but he had never learned the full extent of their abilities.

“How can you—“

“I can read your mind,” she said dramatically. Looking back at her large eyes, dark and bright and rimmed with kohl, Jean wasn’t sure whether he could disbelieve her. He shivered.

“M’chetta, stop torturing the boy,” Grantaire said from his doorway, his voice rough with sleep. He waved his hand between the two of them. “Musichetta, Joly, Joly, Musichetta. Stars, I’m hungover.” He disappeared back into his room to splash himself awake and dress.

“So—“ Jean said, still unsteady. “So you were just playing with me?”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry,” Musichetta said, stepping closer to put a hand on Jean’s arm. “I didn’t think you’d take me seriously. Grantaire told me about you, that’s all. No mage can read minds.”

“Right, okay. I didn’t mean to panic, I just—“

“Everyone’s got things they don’t want people knowing, I understand. You can relax.”

“Thank you,” Jean sighed. He took a few seconds to breathe, and then put together the pieces of what she’d said. “So you’re the one R told me about? The one who studies chance-changeurs?”

“The very same,” said Musichetta with a curtsey. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m horribly fragile, after that.” He was beginning to feel the shame of succumbing to the nervousness. Bossuet had always reassured him afterwards, but now he had no Bossuet to help him.

“Fragile? Not at all.” She smiled at him. “On the contrary, I think you’re sweet.”

Jean could feel the blush starting in his cheeks and could do nothing to stop it. He ducked his head. Musichetta kindly ignored his embarrassment and led him over to his own table to sit down.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, and answered her own question by pulling out a sheet of paper. “All the information you could ever want on chance-changeurs, right here.”

“But,” Jean protested, “that’s just one sheet of paper.”

“Is it?” Musichetta rested a hand atop paper and moved it slowly upward. As she moved, the paper came with her hand, expanding into a book several inches thick. Jean realized only several seconds later that his mouth was hanging open. “Am I trying too hard to impress you, darling?”

“What? No, you’re—“ Jean took a second to process. “You’re trying to impress me?”

“Just a little,” she said. There was a smile in her voice. “You know what, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Okay.”

Musichetta pushed the book away from them and turned to face Jean directly. “The beginning for you, I mean.” She leaned forward, and those dark eyes seemed to be looking straight through him again. “Tell me about your chance-changeur.”

And Jean did. He told her about how they had bought him when Jean was young, how they had grown up friends, how Jean had been horrified to learn what life was really like for Bossuet. He told her everything, except that they were in love. Her intent interest made the words come easily, with none of his natural uncertainty or nervousness. 

“He sounds wonderful,” Musichetta said, once he had finished.

“He is,” Jean agreed, and immediately wondered if that was giving away too much. Musichetta just smiled.

“I hope I can find some way to help. It was lovely to meet you,” she began.

“Oh, no,” Jean groaned, interrupting her. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“What do you mean, darling?”

“Isn’t it incredibly good luck that I just happen to find R and his friends, and he just happens to know someone like you? Isn’t it too good to be natural?”

“Oh, you flatter me!” she said, grinning. Then she added, more seriously, “Lucky meetings have one-time consequences. I won’t lie, there will probably be a pain paid for our meeting, but any good or helpful ideas I have after this point are my good luck, not yours. One consequence, and then you’ve got me forever.”

“I suppose I had to meet someone who could help,” said Jean.

“I’m glad it was me,” said Musichetta. “Now, it’s well past noon and I have a class this afternoon, so I’ve got to go, but I can leave you my book. Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Jean said. They stood and he walked her to the door. “Goodbye, Musichetta.”

“Goodbye, Joly,” she replied, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. Once the door had shut behind her, he reached a hand up to where her lips had touched him. 

“Yes,” said Grantaire, coming up to slap Jean on the back. “She’s quite something.”

Jean spent the rest of the day reading the tome Musichetta had left behind; it was extensive and exhaustive, and he had barely made it through the first few pages by the time the light was fading. He spared a thought to be impressed at the intelligence it would take to pursue such a subject, and another to hope that Musichetta would be able to explain it to him, before he fell asleep.

The next afternoon when Musichetta arrived, Jean was expecting it. This time, he would not be taken by surprise— he would maintain his composure. 

This resolution lasted only until he opened the door.

The woman on the other side was obviously a mage, but the most unconventional mage Jean had ever seen. She must have been wearing the robe the day before because of her class— today she was still dressed in the mage’s purple, but it was a low-cut dress tailored to accentuate her curves. She had thin gold bands in her ears and on her wrists, and her dark hair was allowed to spill loosely down her back.

Her eyes were the same, dark, bright, and lined with kohl, and they looked amusedly at Jean.

He realized belatedly that this was the second time in two days that he had been caught staring.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— you look lovely.” Not sure if he should apologize for staring or just compliment what he saw, he ended up doing both, and flushed horribly.

“Not so bad yourself,” Musichetta said, laughing. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Here, come in. And you?”

“All the better with you here,” she said, and Jean colored again. “Are you ready to begin?”

That day Musichetta taught history, and Jean found that he had more attention for the subject than he ever had before, excepting the Eagle of Meaux. She left in the evening when the light began to fade, and promised to return again the next day. 

Once again, Jean was left with a kiss on his cheek and an odd feeling in his stomach.

Monday they discussed the mechanics of chance-changeurs’ magic, Tuesday the invention and development of menottes, and Wednesday Jean spent on revolution with the Amis. 

When Musichetta arrived on Thursday, her first action was to collapse her text back into a single sheet of paper and tuck it away.

“Are we done?” Jean asked, rather stupidly.

“We’ve barely begun to start,” she said with a laugh, “but I’m thinking this book is dull, and you’ve enough of an overview of the salient points to understand me if I have a sudden brilliant idea.”

“What do we do today, then?”

“Today, we learn about each other, so that we can convince your parents that we’re in love.” 

Jean blinked, sure he’d missed some part of the conversation. “Why are we in love?”

“Because I need to get a look at Bossuet’s menotte before I can tell if there’s anything to be done about it. Have you another excuse for a pretty girl trying to visit a young man's parents while he’s at school?”

“Not at this exact moment, no.”

“Alright Joly, let’s begin with your first name."


	7. CHAPTER SIX

Jean Joly was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, when Grantaire returned in the early hours of the morning.

“You’re still awake?” Grantaire asked, in the loud whisper of the spectacularly drunk.

“Apparently I’m getting married to Musichetta?”

“Ah, I see. You’re smitten.”

“No, I’m not!” Jean liked her, certainly. He was fond of her. But he was still very much in love with Bossuet. Grantaire of all people would not scorn that love, but Jean had no desire to explain it to him at this hour.

“You’re still awake, staring at the ceiling,” said Grantaire gleefully. “I know smitten when I see it.”

“I’m not smitten,” he insisted. “Go to sleep, R.”

“Only if you do.”

To the surprise of both, they managed it within the hour.

Jean woke in the morning to a knocking at the door. He answered it and looked down to see a gamin with one hand outstretched and the other clutching a letter. It must have been from Bossuet— this kind of post was faster, but it wasn’t respectable enough to be M or Mme Joly. Jean groped for a few sous to trade him, and took the letter eagerly.

 

Jean Joly,

Sumptus: I appear to be losing my hair. All of it.

What happened to you? You’re not actually getting married, are you? You would have told me if you liked a girl that much.

Monsieur and Madame are preparing for a visit this weekend. I’ll see you then, at least.

Bossuet

 

Too late, it occurred to Jean that he had not actually informed Bossuet that Grantaire intended to introduce him to a girl, let alone one who was likely to proclaim herself engaged to Jean within a few days. He couldn’t think of a good way to put the truth down on paper, so he bottled up his explanation. It would keep for a few days, until he could see him in person.

As he set the letter down, Jean shivered a little, and worried that he wasn’t keeping himself warm enough. He didn’t want to make Bossuet ill again, so he pulled on his coat indoors.

Saturday morning, Musichetta arrived looking even more lovely than she had the last time Jean had seen her, and he took a moment to breathe before he spoke to greet her.

“Ready to marry me?” she asked, smiling.

“We don’t actually have rings,” he said. This scheme had seemed like a good idea when she had first said it, but now a number of flaws were presenting themselves to him. The longer Jean thought about it, the less likely he thought it was to succeed. Would they really be able to convince his parents that they were in love?

“That’s okay,” she said. She took one bracelet off her wrist, muttered a few words, and watched as it divided itself in two and curled into rings. “Relax, Joly. Or rather, don’t. If you seem this nervous in front of your parents, they probably won’t ask you to speak.”

“My father already thinks I have a nervous complaint,” said Jean.

“Well, right now you do. You’re nervous and complaining at the same time.” Musichetta put her hands on the sides of Jean’s face. “You’re going to be just fine. I’ll do all the talking.”

“And then we’ll be able to help Bossuet."

“Hm.” She sounded speculative, considering.

“What is it?” he asked, glancing down at himself. Had he mis-buttoned his coat again? Was his cravat untied?

“Oh, nothing. Well, maybe it’s something. I’ll let you know once I’m sure.” There was a sound of wheels outside on the street— that would be the Joly carriage, sent to collect them. “Let’s go, fiancé.”

They were silent in the carriage. It wasn’t a long distance to travel; they arrived before Jean could think of a conversation to start. Before they got out, Musichetta put a hand on his shoulder to turn him towards her.

“One thing you’re missing—“ She leaned in and kissed him, this time on the mouth, hard enough to leave a smudge of color on his lips. “There.”

The door was opened for them Jean stepped out, helping Musichetta after him. Suddenly, his biggest concern was no longer his parents; it was Bossuet. How would he explain having kissed Musichetta? Could he explain it to himself? He hadn’t had time to really respond, but would he have, given time? He wasn’t sure.

It had hardly been unpleasant.

As Musichetta promised, she did most of the talking with M and Mme Joly. She was everything a parent wanted to see in a potential daughter in law— beautiful, charming, and good-humored, though Jean could tell that much of her lovely laughter was forced. He found that he missed the sound of her true laugh. Every now and then he was called upon to share in the laugh, or add some detail to a story she was telling, and he did his best to sound as smitten as Grantaire had thought him. Finally, his mother pronounced judgement:

“Jean, you’ve made a splendid choice. She’s simply darling!”

“Thank you, mother,” he replied awkwardly.

“Would you give us a moment to speak with her? I’m sure you can find something to occupy yourself— you haven’t been here in months, after all.” In all honesty, Jean had no idea if this was an acceptable thing for a parent to ask of her son. He glanced at Musichetta for guidance, but she merely nodded subtly and kept talking to his father.

Jean escaped the room, only to come within inches of crashing into Bossuet, who had been watching at the door.

“Hello,” he said, having to look up from where his face had nearly been planted in Bossuet’s shoulder. “Wow. You were not kidding about your hair.”

“No indeed,” Bossuet replied with a little smile. “It’s nice to see you haven’t forgotten about me entirely.”

Jean panicked.

“I haven’t, I wouldn’t, I’d never forget you, you’re my best, oldest friend, my— I love you, I wouldn’t—“ He couldn’t stop himself from speaking, even as he felt Bossuet’s gentle hands guide him into a spare room off of the hall.

“Relax, Jean Joly. I was just teasing. Shh, shh, it’s okay. Has something happened?”

“Musichetta happened,” Jean said bleakly. “She’s a friend of Grantaire’s, from the Sorcellerie—“

“I never, ever would have guessed that from her clothes,” said Bossuet, and Jean let out a long sigh.

“I have missed your sarcasm almost as much as I missed you. R wouldn’t be serious to save his life, but it’s not the same. Just, come here for a moment?” Bossuet stepped closer and folded Jean into his arms. Jean was able to be calm and still surrounded by his warmth, until at last the moment ended.

“Tell me what’s happened?” Bossuet prompted.

“Grantaire introduced me to her because she’s studying chance-changeurs, and he thought she might be able to help me help you. This,” Jean waved his hand to indicate the entire situation, “was her idea. She needed an excuse to come here to get a look at your menotte.”

“You didn’t have to do any of this for me,” said Bossuet, a little wonderingly.

“I made you a promise.”

“You were nine.”

“Still a promise.” Jean looked at him very seriously. “Even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t pass up a chance to help you.”

“Too late to save my hair, though.” Bossuet was smiling, and Jean knew that he had been convinced.

“I rather like you without it,” he said, finding as he said it that it was true. He ran a hand over the smooth skin, resting finally at the back of his neck. It was only when he looked down from Bossuet’s eyes that he realized how close they were— if either of them leaned in just slightly, their mouths would touch. He froze.

“Now what’s wrong?” Bossuet’s hands came up to Jean’s shoulders, touching reassuringly.

“I would have liked it, just now, if you had kissed me. But Musichetta kissed me in the carriage, and I liked that, too. I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to understand,” said Bossuet, and then he did kiss Jean, just as brief as their first, and just as unsatisfying. “You don’t even have to choose.” What was he suggesting? Wouldn’t it be wrong, to try to be with Musichetta while he still loved Bossuet? Was it still wrong if Bossuet said it was okay?

“But what do I do?” 

“You go back out there, because they’re calling you,” said Bossuet. It was evasive and Jean knew it, but he could also hear his father’s voice. 

“Do you think they’re convinced that I love her?” he asked, worriedly straightening his waistcoat.

“You’re very convincing.” There was something cryptic in Bossuet’s tone, but Jean had no time to analyze it as he rushed to the other room. He passed Musichetta in the door— he was alone with his parents, and she was alone with Bossuet. Jean couldn’t help tensing as he wondered what the two of them would talk about.

It turned out his parents only wanted him for a few minutes, to confirm the menu for that evening’s dinner, but Jean agonized over every awkward second he missed between Musichetta and Bossuet. At last he was able to leave to join them again.

“Apparently permanent sumptus means permanent fortunum,” said Bossuet, seeing him enter. He was standing facing Musichetta, and the two of them seemed to be conversing easily. Jean relaxed to see the two of them getting along. “There’s no hope for my hair, but Musichetta’s here to stay. Also, she’s delightful and I approve highly.” What did that mean? Was he allowing Jean to like her? Why would he do that? 

“And I know a way to help,” added Musichetta.

This statement was enough to capture Jean’s attention for the rest of the evening, through both dinner and the carriage ride. At last, back at his rooms for the night, he was able to ask his question.

“How?”

“Some menottes are stamped with crests that tie their power to the whole house and family, but yours just has your family name on it. You might’ve noticed that the luck only applies to you and your parents.” Jean thought of the maid who had died when he was fifteen and nodded. “The thing is, you’re all Joly, but all of you are something else as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Madame Joly, Monsieur Joly, Jean Joly. The menotte is helping people who are part Joly, part something else. If you could manage to be only Joly, all the luck would go to you."

“Are you sure? And— how would I even do that?” Jean felt himself grow warmer as Musichetta stepped closer to him, closer than was actually necessary for conversation. She came close enough that he could feel her breath on his face as she tilted her head to look up at him.

“I’ve found that names stick best when you have strong emotion attached to them,” she said softly, moving just a little closer. “Kiss me, Joly?”

Jean felt a moment of guilt— he knew, with certainty, that even in this moment he still loved Bossuet, but Bossuet had said this was alright, hadn’t he? He had given Jean permission, or something like it.

He took a deep breath, and kissed Musichetta. It was the first kiss he had ever initiated. She responded instantly, pushing back and sliding her lips maddeningly against his. He pushed a little harder without even knowing what he was looking for. Her lips felt warm and sweet and good against his, and he forgot to feel guilty.

Musichetta’s hands came up to his shoulders as he pulled away, and he startled at the contact. “How strong of— emotion— are you intending?” he asked, trying not to sound nervous. She glanced at the open door to the other bedroom.

“R’s not here... What will you allow, Joly?” she asked softly. “I won’t push you.”

“I—“ He found himself wanting to agree to anything. Musichetta was incredible, the most incredible woman he had ever encountered, and she was gorgeous as well. He found that he wanted to do everything he had ever heard of with her. And she was offering; all he had to do was let her. “Everything,” he said.

“Alright, but slowly then. Kiss me again, Joly,” she instructed, and he did. Her hands on his shoulders began to slide down his chest, undoing buttons as they went. He shivered as he felt his waistcoat slip off, and again as her gentle fingers began to untie his cravat. 

“Can I—“ he began the question, finishing it by putting his hands on her waist.

“Yes, Joly. This does work much better if both of us get undressed.” Musichetta pushed his shirt up and over his head. Then, in one fluid motion, she turned around and swept her hair out of the way, presenting him with the elegant curve of the back of her neck. He couldn’t help himself— he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on the skin there. She moved in an encouraging way underneath his mouth, and he could feel his cock responding in turn.

A moment later he remembered that he was meant to be undressing her, and he flushed a little and drew back. The lacing of her dress and her stays were short enough work for his dextrous fingers. These removed, he found the woman underneath—

Still in a dress. Or a slip, at least. Finally he understood other men’s frustration with the number of layers on a woman’s body.

Musichetta turned back around in his arms and kissed him again. Then she laughed, and he drew back, confused. “You’re still wearing boots, Joly.” He flushed again and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove them. He set them aside at the foot of his bed, but before he could stand back up, Musichetta seated herself easily across his lap. He let out an embarrassing sound at the contact so near his hardening cock, and she smiled and rolled her hips closer.

“My slip, Joly?” she said, raising her arms so he could lift it over her head. He wasn’t prepared for the sight of all her skin at once.

For the next several seconds, he simply stared, drinking in the lovely sight of her body. Her skin was smooth, her curves were soft and lovely, her nipples hardened invitingly, her— he dared not even look further down, yet. Hesitantly, he put his hands on her, but this was only an extension of his admiration. He touched reverently, to tell her he appreciated her.

The soft sounds she let out in response were a delight and an encouragement. He was completely hard in a few moments, and his trousers were becoming uncomfortable.

“Can I—“ he asked again, this time reaching for his own buttons.

“Yes, Joly,” Musichetta laughed. Then she reached down to undo the button herself, then raised herself up off of his lap so that he could slide them off without dislodging her. “Do you want to put your fingers somewhere more interesting?”

“This is very interesting,” he said honestly, stroking over her nipple to elicit a little sound.

“Here, Joly,” she said, taking his hand in hers. She dragged it down her body until his fingers were resting just over her entrance. There was a possibility, at that very moment, of being inside her. His head spun a little.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. She nodded enthusiastically and leaned down a little, catching the tip of one finger inside her. He made a little shocked sound and pushed it in further, feeling the heat and wetness there. “Oh, Musichetta, this is…” He had no words. A gentle stroke within her, and then a second, and then she was making the best noises yet.

“Can I touch you, Joly?” Her hands moved down his chest to his stomach, suggesting what she meant.

“Yes,” he said helplessly. Then her delicate, clever fingers were on his cock, a thousand times better than any time he’d had his hands on himself, and he groaned. She stroked a few more times, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside her.

“Are you ready, Joly?” Musichetta asked, rolling her hips against his fingers in a way that wasn’t quite impatience.

“I think so,” he said. Gently, she maneuvered them so that she lay flat on his bed, and he propped himself up over her. His hips moved toward her without direction, and she put her hand on his cock again to guide it inside of her. The feeling was like nothing he had even imagined before, and it overwhelmed his mind for a moment; he thrust aimlessly a few times, doing nothing but feeling her around him.

“Joly!” Musichetta cried, and this time it wasn’t pointed. This time, she said his name because she couldn’t help herself, because she was enjoying what he was doing to her— suddenly he had a powerful desire to make her say it again, and he understood why she had suggested this.

He thrust again, deeper this time, and the pitch of her voice on his name climbed. He needed one hand to keep himself balanced over her as he began to move steadily, but the other returned to touch appreciatively, adoringly, at her neck, her breasts, her side.

Musichetta arched suddenly as he thrust in, and he knew that he must have done something right. He did his best to keep doing it, and leaned down to kiss her. This kiss was sloppy by comparison, but it felt perfect. He wasn’t going to last much longer, not with her tight around him and stroking at his tongue with hers.

“Musichetta, I—“

“Pull out, Joly,” she instructed. He did, and instantly her fingers were around him, stroking quick and fast, and then he was finished. Joly cried out her name as he came over her fingers.

When Joly came back to himself, Musichetta was panting and rubbing hard at herself with her clean fingers. It occurred to him that he ought to be helpful, so he added two of his own fingers, pressing inside her— inside, where his cock had just been. 

“Oh, Joly,” she sighed. It only took a couple of strokes before she came as well, clenching hard on his fingers. He wished, for one wistful moment, that he had been able to feel that on his cock.

As Musichetta calmed down, Joly climbed off the bed to find a rag. He felt loose-limbed, and the aftereffects of his pleasure were still coursing through him. As soon as he had wiped them both clean, Joly curled up, holding Musichetta to his chest. It was only a few moments before the warmth of her body against his sent him to pleasant sleep.


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

When Joly woke up in the morning, he felt different.

Some of it was because he had shifted his perception of himself, just slightly, in calling himself Joly. Some of it was the leftover hormones in his system— he could hardly believe that he had lost his virginity, last night, to a woman like Musichetta.

A lot of it was his growing confusion.

He loved Bossuet, and had for years. Bossuet was his first love. Nothing could be more certain in his mind.

But Bossuet had more or less given him permission to be with Musichetta. It had been wonderful, more than wonderful, being with her. Allowing himself to kiss and touch and feel her. Joly didn’t regret having done it. Looking down at her soft, lovely body tucked up against his, he felt sweeping tenderness and not a little arousal. There was, however, a definite sense of something missing.

Bossuet was missing.

Joly thought of extricating his arm from where it was wrapped around Musichetta, and found that he had no desire to let go of her, or to see her leave his bed, let alone his rooms. 

He thought of staying where he was with Musichetta, and found that she, even amazing as she was, wasn’t enough to fill in the gap where Bossuet belonged in his heart.

It seemed that there was only one choice that could be made. He had to let Musichetta go, little as he wanted to. It wouldn’t be fair to stay with her without loving her as he loved Bossuet, and it wouldn’t be fair to Bossuet if he loved him but slept with someone else. When Musichetta woke up, Joly would have to tell her that they couldn’t do this again, because he was in love with someone else.

He held still, watched her breathe, and did nothing to hasten her awakening.

Finally, those lovely, dark eyes slid open. The kohl around them was smudged with sleep, but it only made her more endearing. Joly braced himself for what he would have to do.

“Musichetta…” he said softly. He waited for her to wake; he wasn’t cruel enough to do this while she was still half-asleep. At last she stretched and turned toward him.

“What is it, Joly?” she asked.

“I really like you,” he began.

“I really like you, too,” said Musichetta, her eyes smiling.

“But I love… someone else.”

“I know,” she said. He frowned with confusion.

“Then why would you— it isn’t fair, for me to sleep with you but love someone else. I can’t do that to you, or to hi— that person.”

“If that’s what you’ve decided.” Her eyes hadn’t lost their smile; they looked sly, like she knew some secret.

“You’re not upset, or anything?” he asked.

“Not at all. I’m not about to begrudge you your feelings. No matter what they are… Well. I still really like you, Joly.”

“Alright.” He breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he’d made the right choice, but he didn’t want to ruin what friendship he had with Musichetta in the process. 

Her clothes from the day before were only a little rumpled from their time on the floor, and she pulled them quickly back on. She splashed herself with water from his basin to clean the smudged kohl out of her eyes. Joly still thought her eyes were stunning without it. Finally, she wound her fingers into Joly’s hair and kissed him one last time. Then she left.

When she was gone, Joly felt emptier than he expected to.

Grantaire returned in the afternoon, apparently having known somehow that he shouldn’t have come back in the night. He still seemed slightly hungover, and he smelled strongly of wine, but Joly was glad to see one person, at least, about whom his feelings were very clear.

“Where is she?” Grantaire said immediately, poking his head around the corner as though he expected Musichetta to be hiding there.

“She went home,” said Joly. “Or rather— I sent her home.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“She’s amazing, but I’m in love with someone else.”

“Ah, Bossuet,” said Grantaire, nodding sagely.

“What?” Joly froze in place and tried not to seem guilty.

“Don’t pretend, Jolllly. You ought to trust me, at least, to know what love looks like.” Joly was surprised to hear Grantaire speaking openly about his own love, convinced as he seemed to be that it was unrequited. “You rather give yourself away when you say his name. Tell me, have you ever heard me say Apollo’s real name?”

“Only very drunk,” Joly admitted.

“I can call him Apollo ironically. But when I pronounce ‘Enjolras’… Tell me truthfully that I do not shape his very name tenderly.”

“I cannot.”

“I know.” Grantaire sounded bitter. Joly did not think Enjolras’s opinion of Grantaire was quite so bad as Grantaire seemed to think, but there was no convincing him of this; Joly had tried.

“So, when I say ‘Bossuet’…” Joly began.

“One might think it was simply the sound of the word, if he hadn’t heard it from another mouth before. You are clearly in love,” Grantaire confirmed. “But you need have no fear of me, or any of Les Amis.”

“Thank you,” said Joly gratefully. He had not thought, at least not explicitly, that there would be any danger from his friends, but it felt good to have his anxiety alleviated. Just then, there was neither Bossuet nor Musichetta to help calm him. 

Soon, however, there would be Bossuet, if he was correct. He penned a letter to his parents, requesting again that Bossuet come to stay with him. This time, he trusted to Musichetta’s judgement that Bossuet’s luck would fall on him alone; this time, they ought to be persuaded. 

Once it was sent, he grabbed Grantaire by the elbow and marched him out of the building and down the street, forcibly relieving his melancholy by means of good food and dominoes (though Joly did not place any bets himself).

His letter was answered in the form of a knock at the door in the late afternoon, two days later. By some impressive instinct— or actual magic, Joly had to consider— Grantaire was out at the time. He answered the door and found Bossuet on the other side, looking half pleased to be there and half wryly amused at himself.

He was also covered in blood.

“Bossuet!” Joly exclaimed, and dragged him into the room. “What happened to you?”

“Why, nothing at all,” said Bossuet with a smile. “This is all from my nose. I’m not sure if the nosebleed itself is meant to be the bad luck, or the fact that it’s dripped all over my clothes.”

“Or both. I suppose you had to pay for my luck in convincing my parents somehow.”

“I’m happy to pay it, and happy to see you,” said Bossuet. Joly smiled at that and leaned forward to kiss him despite the blood. He was more comfortable starting kisses now, though with Bossuet here he was trying not to think about why that was.

“You should take those clothes off,” he said.

“Moving quickly, aren’t you?” Bossuet joked, and Joly immediately colored.

“I mean— blood! All over them! Unsanitary, and—“

“Ah, I see. You’re doing that thing where you pretend you aren’t incredibly attracted to me.”

Joly bit his lip and considered. Grantaire was out, and Bossuet was here. Bossuet was freer and healthier than he’d been in some time. And he was right: Joly was incredibly attracted to him. 

“What if you take your clothes off because they’re bloody, and also because you’re attractive? Then we’re multitasking.” Bossuet raised an eyebrow and set down a bag that Joly hadn’t noticed, then stripped off his waistcoat and shirt to lay them on top of the bag. Joly undressed to match him while he went over to the basin to scrub the traces of blood from his face and chest. Even marred with bruises here and there, his body was a thing of beauty, strong and smooth and well-composed.

When he had finished, he moved behind Joly and wrapped his arms around him. Joly was conscious that he had been behind Musichetta in much the same way, before they had been together, so he turned to face Bossuet.

“I love you,” he said. 

“I love you too,” answered Bossuet. “It’s nice to actually be alone with you. Or— you have a roommate, don’t you?”

“Grantaire,” Joly agreed. “But he seems to be able to tell when he shouldn’t be here.”

“Get girls in here often, do you?” Immediately Joly could feel himself coloring. Bossuet raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Only once, and that was— was Musichetta,” he stuttered. “The day we came to visit. Did she tell you her plan?”

“She did, Joly, but I’m not sure what that has to do with…”

“She made a point of saying my name. Enthusiastically.” They were both awkwardly strained against each other, and Joly longed to diffuse the tension. “Um. Have you—“

“No.”

“Not a lot of opportunity, I suppose—“

“Not so much a lack of opportunity,” Bossuet said. Joly’s attempt seemed to have backfired; it was more awkward than ever. “But what if you had been taking a test, or going down the stairs, or even just walking next to a puddle? It could have gone very badly, very quickly.”

“Oh,” Joly said softly, sadly. “But, if you want to, with me— It has to go well, doesn’t it?”

“Of course I want to, but do you? What about Musichetta?”

“I like her a lot, but I still love you. I do want to. I always wanted to.” Joly leaned back in towards Bossuet and tilted his head up, tacitly asking for a kiss. He felt the tension in Bossuet’s body relax as he moved in to give it. The kiss was better than their others had been, now that Joly knew what he was doing. He held tight to Bossuet’s arms and kissed him hard, startling a sound out of him.

“I suppose there are some advantages to having done this before,” Bossuet conceded on a breath.

“You make it sound like I’m terribly experienced,” Joly complained. “I’m really not.”

“More than me,” said Bossuet. “Come, show me what you’ve learned.” Looking at their comparative sizes, Joly placed himself in Musichetta’s role and walked Bossuet back towards the bed. There was a lovely, easy rhythm to the way they moved together, even just walking, and the arousal Joly had felt from the first time their shirts had come off made itself apparent. He frowned a little, considering.

“This’ll work better if we take our pants off before we sit down,” he decided, and they both did.

“Then we sit? How exactly did Musichetta have you doing this?” Joly laughed.

“No, you sit, and I—“ he paused, maneuvering himself into place over Bossuet’s lap. “I place myself on top of you. Hold still for a second.” Balancing himself with his hands on Bossuet’s shoulders, Joly rolled his hips downwards, pushing their cocks together. The hardness pressing against his was so different from Musichetta’s wet heat, but still so good.

“Oh,” said Bossuet. His hips jerked helplessly and his eyes rolled back. “I apologize, sitting is a wonderful idea.”

“Mmhmm,” Joly managed. He shifted a little closer so that they could thrust against each other more easily. This close, it was easy to lean down and take Bossuet’s mouth in a kiss. This kiss was even better than the last. Their mouths opened, and Joly tentatively introduced his tongue, licking over Bossuet’s lip. Bossuet moaned encouragingly.

“Here, can I— I want to—“ Without finishing the question, Bossuet turned them so that they were lying flat on the bed, arranging himself on top of Joly. Joly gasped in response. “Is this okay?”

“Oh yes,” said Joly. “Musichetta had me on top of her, but I— oh— I think I quite like having you over me.”

Bossuet seemed to enjoy it as well. He thrust down harder against Joly, making them both gasp. It was rougher, more desperate, than with Musichetta, but Joly enjoyed the feeling just as much. More, even, because it was with Bossuet, and Joly loved him.

They moved faster and faster, losing precision as they gained force. They had lost coherence long ago, all words forgotten in the heady slide of their cocks against each other. Joly held tight to Bossuet’s shoulders and gasped into his mouth.

Bossuet came first, spilling onto Joly’s stomach and shuddering hard as he collapsed. Joly thrust twice more and writhed under the full-body press of Bossuet against him, and then he came as well, breathing hard.

“That was amazing,” he murmured, when he came down from his climax.

“My dear Joly, you have a talent for understatement.” Bossuet heaved himself up and rolled to the side. Joly enjoyed being pressed up against his side as long as he could, but eventually the come on their stomachs threatened to dry and stick there, so he made himself get up to clean them. As soon as he was done he curled up beside Bossuet again.

“I love you,” he said. He hoped Bossuet heard him, though it had been mumbled into his shoulder.

“I love you too,” said Bossuet, putting his arm around Joly. It was warm and comfortable and he drifted off easily.

They woke up still entwined to find Grantaire looking down at them.

“Someone had fun last night,” he said, with a smile that was not quite a leer.

“R—“ Joly began, not sure how to respond.

“So much fun," Bossuet agreed. “Just imagine, Joly. If it weren’t for your parents, we could’ve been doing that for years.”

“Hold on a second,” said Grantaire, frowning at Joly. “Am I to understand that you grew up with him, have been in love with him for years, found your love requited, and then had perfect first-time sex?”

“Yes?” said Joly. “Well, define perfect.”

“If you have to ask, it was. Stars, I’m so jealous right now. Can I borrow some of that luck?”

“You do know he actually likes you, right? He thinks you’re hilarious when you’re not too drunk,” Joly tried to reassure him. Grantaire just waved it off and headed into his room to grab his books for class. Once he was gone, Bossuet looked down at Joly, his brow furrowed in concern.

“I want to help him.”

“He isn’t always that maudlin. You’ll have to come to a meeting with us and see what I mean. You can even borrow a shirt that’ll cover your menotte.”

“But that’s illegal,” said Bossuet. Joly raised an eyebrow at him.

“So is the overthrow of the government.”

“You make a good point.”

When they arrived at that week’s meeting, they both stopped short to see Musichetta already there and introducing herself to Enjolras. They took their seats together and watched her in confusion. She walked over to join them when she noticed them.

“What can I say, boys? You’ve won me over. “ Musichetta smiled her sly smile and sat down at their table.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

Joly worried, at first, that what he had shared with Musichetta would make things awkward— either between her and himself, or Bossuet and himself, or her and Bossuet, or even all of the above— but Musichetta was so very much herself that there could be no awkwardness. She was charming, and clever, and seemed to enjoy their faults just as much as their strengths.

To his great dismay, Joly found that his feelings for her were not fading away with time, but in fact growing stronger as the month wore on. He avoided telling Bossuet, because it made him glad to see the two of them getting along.

He didn’t know what he would do if the two of them disliked each other.

They were still in the Musain, after a meeting had ended, they day Joly got the letter. The three of them left together and walked home; Joly’s rooms were on the way to Musichetta’s. As they approached the door, they could see a man there delivering the mail. It was the official mail, then— who could it be from but Joly’s parents?

Joly swallowed, wondering what they could have to say. 

“Musichetta, maybe you could come up with us? I’ve got mail from my parents, it could very well be about you.” 

In his rooms, Joly stood in the middle of the room to read. Musichetta and Bossuet were standing nearby, having the kind of conversation that often made Joly wonder what the precise definition of flirting was, but he was not truly conscious of them anymore.

The letter wasn’t from his parents.

It was about them. He was being notified that his parents were dead, taken with cholera.

Joly didn’t know how to feel.

He dropped the paper and let out a low sound, shocked and lost. He felt wrapped in cloth, muffled and divided from the world. His eyes looked ahead without really seeing.

“Joly?” That was Musichetta’s voice, reaching in through the cloth. “Darling, are you alright?”

There was a scuffling sound as Bossuet bent down and picked up the letter to set it on the table.

“It’s his parents,” Joly heard him murmur.

“Oh, darling,” said Musichetta. Her arms wrapped around him and he turned into her touch without thinking. It was anchoring, affirming. 

“I’m here Joly,” said Bossuet on his other side. Joly turned toward him, as well, and found himself resting his head on Musichetta’s shoulder and leaning into Bossuet’s solid presence. With them on either side, he was able, after several long seconds, to cry. He didn’t understand his own feelings, but it was okay, somehow. Everything seemed alright with the two of them there.

“I didn’t even like them, most of the time,” he managed. His breath was coming in gasping cries, and he felt a delicate, strong hand come up to card through his hair.

“But they’re still your parents, darling,” said Musichetta softly.

“And they cared about you, even if they weren’t good at showing it,” said Bossuet. Joly tried to pull them both closer, and they came willingly. 

They stayed like that until very late at night, and fell asleep like that in Joly’s bed.

It was more than a fortnight before Joly could really call himself ‘alright’ again, and he missed Musichetta’s presence every night after the first. It was good having Bossuet with him, and he always felt better when he was wrapped in Bossuet’s arms, but he still felt that he was missing something. 

The feeling persisted even after he stopped grieving, until at last he had to recognize the feeling for what it was: he was in love.

Again.

But he was still in love with Bossuet, and he didn’t know what to do. He was already with Bossuet, so he felt that it would be wrong to choose her, but how could he stay with Bossuet, knowing that he loved someone else as well? Was there any way for this to be fair to both of them?

One morning, he awoke curled on his side to find Bossuet lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He seemed to be in deep contemplation of something.

“What’s wrong?” Joly asked him. His voice was still rough with sleep, so he cleared his throat and asked again.

“I heard you the first time,” said Bossuet, not looking at him. “Have you had any… particular good fortune, lately? Anything I haven’t noticed?”

“I don’t think so.” He repeated, “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m falling in love.” Joly couldn’t help but freeze.

“What? Who with?”

“I still love you,” he said, meeting Joly’s eyes for the first time to assure him of his sincerity. Then he let out a long breath, like he was bracing himself. “Musichetta.” The way he said her name— the same tender way Grantaire had said Enjolras’s name— made his feelings very clear.

“Oh.” Joly almost laughed. That was alright, then. If they were both still in love with each other, then it couldn’t be too bad that they were both also in love with Musichetta. “Me too,” he confessed.

“What?”

“I love Musichetta too. In addition to you.” He lowered his eyes, not sure how Bossuet would react. 

Instead of speaking, Bossuet leaned down and kissed Joly hard, pulling him close with a hand on the small of his back. They kept kissing for several minutes, until Joly could feel Bossuet start to get hard under the blankets. He had an idea and reached for Bossuet’s cock.

“Mmh,” Bossuet sighed in to his mouth at the feeling. Joly started stroking with his fingertips, trying to remember the easy movements and playful rhythm Musichetta had used on him. Bossuet frowned a little. “This is different.”

“This is how she does it,” said Joly. “Gentle, clever touches in exactly the right places.” He rubbed two fingers over the head and stroked up the underside with his thumb. “Just like that.”

“Oh,” said Bossuet. His eyes slid shut and he started to make soft noises with every touch to his head. “She’s good at this, isn’t she?”

“Why thank you,” said Joly graciously. “But she is very good at this. I didn’t think I would last long enough to get inside her.”

“That’s just not fair,” Bossuet complained. “Tell me?”

“Well,” Joly began, leaning in close to Bossuet’s ear. “She’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, for one. And tight, too.” He wrapped his hand tightly around Bossuet’s cock, trying to imitate the feeling for him. “It’s like she’s trying to keep you there.” Joly kept going for a few more minutes, until suddenly—

“Musichetta!” Bossuet cried, and came hard into Joly’s hand. It was several seconds before he turned his head to look down at Joly. “Oh. I’m sorry—“

“That was kind of the point,” Joly said. It felt nice to be the one of them who was coherent, for once. “Now it’s my turn, come on. Reciprocity.”

“You demanding thing,” tutted Bossuet. “You’re lucky I love you.”

For parity’s sake, Joly made a point of crying out Musichetta’s name when he came as well.

When they finally left bed, they found Grantaire already awake and sitting up at the table. His hands were pressed over his ears as he tried to eat by levitating a croissant to his mouth. They watched him drop it twice just as it got to his mouth before finally walking over to get his attention.

“Oh, are you done now?” Grantaire asked. “Where’s Musichetta?” They both blushed.

“Not here,” said Bossuet. “We were just—“

“Ah,” said Grantaire. “Silly me, assuming you had sorted yourselves out.”

“What do you mean?” Joly asked him.

“Well, she obviously likes you. I thought you’d be having incredibly unfair threesome sex by now.”

Joly and Bossuet turned to look at each other. The thought hadn’t actually occurred to them, but now that it had… it seemed like a terribly good idea. They thanked Grantaire, did their best to convince him that he was brilliant and more than deserved Enjolras, and went straight back to their bedroom to make plans.


	10. CHAPTER NINE

Bossuet came in late to the Les Amis meeting, happening to interrupt Enjolras in full flow. Earlier, Joly had managed an incredibly smooth compliment to Musichetta’s eyes. As Bossuet sat down, he murmured something in Joly’s ear that no one else in the room could hear.

They were prepared.

“Would you like to come back with us for dinner?” Joly asked Musichetta after the meeting. Her smile was blinding, and Joly could hear Bossuet catch his breath.

“If you’ll have me,” she said. 

When they arrived at Joly and Bossuet’s rooms, they were empty. Aside from the three of them, they would stay that way. Grantaire had been warned that tonight was the night (“Yes, yes it is,” he had responded). Joly lit the lamps and the candles on the table, filling the room with a warm glow.

“My lady,” Bossuet joked as he pulled out Musichetta’s chair for her. With a flourish, Joly uncovered the food on the table.

The two of them had pulled out all the stops to try to please the woman they loved. The room was spotless and well-lit, they themselves were as well-dressed as they could manage to be without seeming to try too hard, and the meal was good but not extravagant. They both knew that Musichetta appreciated simple food done well more than ostentatious food.

“I’m impressed, my dears,” she said, and they finally had the courage to sit down as well. Carefully, Joly and Bossuet had spaced them all equidistant around the circular table.

Dinner was good but relatively silent; they were too nervous to do more than just respond to what Musichetta said.

“Alright, I’m curious,” she said, once they had all finished. “What’s all this about?”

“We wanted—“ Joly and Bossuet began at the same time, and then stopped. They glanced at each other in silent conversation, debating which of them was actually too nervous to get it out coherently and which was exaggerating. Finally, Bossuet spoke. “We wanted to ask you something. Well, first, we wanted to tell you something.”

“Okay…” said Musichetta, gesturing for them to continue. Her eyes were intense and entrancing in the candlelight. 

“We’re… together,” said Bossuet. She didn’t react.

“Romantically,” Joly added.

“And…?” 

“And you already knew that,” said Joly, putting his head down on the table. Bossuet reached over to pat him on the shoulder.

“And we were talking last week, and we realized that both of us have… feelings. For you. So we were wondering if you wanted to, also. Be with us, I mean.”

“Also romantically,” said Joly into the table.

“Really?” said Musichetta. Her voice had gone almost breathy in a way Joly hadn’t heard before. “That sounds wonderful, I— I knew Joly liked me before, but you two seemed so happy together— you are happy together, right? You’re not asking me because you’re having problems?”

“No, no,” Joly said reassuringly. “I love Bossuet just as much as ever. I just love you, too.”

Bossuet reassured her with a physical demonstration: he pulled Joly up off the table and kissed him hard and deep.

“Oh,” said Musichetta lowly. “Keep going, that’s… I think I could watch you forever.”

Joly broke the kiss. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” she said, looking at him like he was ridiculous. “I love you both very much, and it’s good to see people I love loving each other.”

Bossuet smiled widely at her. “You love us,” he said, sounding a little stunned.

“Oh yes,” Musichetta confirmed.

“Let me try it?” Bossuet asked them. “Let me see what it’s like to watch you two?” 

She smiled and stood up, walking around the table to settle herself in Joly’s lap. He gasped and looked up at her, letting all his adoration for her show on his face as she leaned down towards him. Her lips on his were even better than before, knowing that this time they were in love.

“Oh,” said Bossuet, echoing Musichetta. “Yes, I know what you mean.” Joly kissed her back, reaching a hand up into her hair. His fingers tangled into the thick waves and pulled her closer. Cautiously, he opened his mouth to hers.

“Mm,” she sighed as she opened her mouth in response. Their tongues touched, gently at first, and then more confident as they remembered this dance together. Musichetta kissed cleverly, cataloguing everything Joly liked and doing it again and again to drive him out of his mind. Suddenly, there was a larger, broader hand on the side of Joly’s face, and he broke the kiss with Musichetta to turn his face towards Bossuet. He could still feel her breath on his face, even as he began to kiss Bossuet open-mouthed.

After a minute, Joly could feel himself hardening in his trousers. Musichetta could feel it too; she began to roll her hips down against him.

“Oh, is he ready for something more?” Bossuet asked her.

“Hmm. Almost,” she concluded. Then she leaned up to kiss him, reaching a hand behind his neck to hold him in place. Musichetta’s head was tipped back to expose the curve of her throat and her hair spilled over Joly’s hand and down her back. Bossuet had a hand behind her back to support her as she leaned back. His other callused hand still rested on the side of Joly’s face.

Joly looked up at the two of them, kissing right on top of him, and couldn’t help thrusting up against Musichetta.

“Now he’s ready,” she laughed.

“Are we going to—“ Joly asked hopefully.

“Oh yes,” said Musichetta. Bossuet helped her up off of Joly’s lap— he whined a little at the loss, but took Bossuet’s hand and stood up after them. Bossuet led the two of them to Joly’s bed. “Now, what to do? So many permutations… Which one of you boys bottoms?”

“What?” asked Bossuet. Joly just stared at her in confusion.

“Which of you prefers to be penetrated,” she clarified.

“Is that a thing that people can do?” Joly asked, rather stupidly. Musichetta burst out laughing.

“It’s a wonderful thing that people can do. I can help if you’re willing to try it, darling.” She was looking at Joly; he shifted nervously. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to do it if you don’t like it.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” he said.

“How do we do it?” Bossuet asked.

“First and foremost we’ll need something slippery, like tallow,” she instructed, looking around the room.

“Tallow is a solid,” said Joly. He immediately felt stupid again, but Musichetta just laughed.

“Not when it’s warm. I think there was a tallow candle on the table— you boys take your clothes off, I’ll be right back.” As soon as she was gone, Joly turned to Bossuet.

“We need to get her clothes off, too, before she does anything else. It’ll take ages if we can’t focus.”

“Right.” Bossuet nodded. When she came back in the door, he took the candle from her hands and set it down on the bedside table. “We were thinking, Musichetta— you really ought to take your dress off, too. It’s hardly fair like this.” He gestured at the two of them, completely naked and obviously aroused.

“Well, if you insist,” Musichetta laughed. She reached behind herself with impressive flexibility, tugged a few times at her laces, and then slipped cleanly out of dress and stays in one motion. Joly’s throat worked soundlessly.

“If I may?” asked Bossuet, kneeling in front of her and touching the hem of her slip. She ran a hand gently over his smooth scalp.

“Of course, my love,” she said. He held the hem in both hands and lifted it as he rose to his feet, slipping it finally over her head. Then she was as naked as they were, and all three of them spent a moment just drinking each other in.

Joly’s body was pale and slender, Bossuet’s was stronger and darker, Musichetta’s was all soft curves and warm gold— they made up a full palette with the contrasts between them, but they all seemed to suit each other.

Musichetta directed Bossuet to sit on the bed and Joly to sit in front of him. Gently, she arranged them so that Bossuet’s legs were slightly spread and Joly’s were bent to rest over his, spreading his legs even wider. Musichetta placed herself in the space between them.

“I’m going to start with just one finger inside you, and when you’ve gotten used to that we’ll see if you can handle more, okay?”

“Is this sanitary?” Joly asked. He couldn’t help it— he had spent so long with Bossuet’s health as his main concern, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it even for pleasure’s sake.

“You’ll be fine unless you put my fingers in your mouth afterwards,” she reassured him. Then she reached over to collect a little tallow from the candle and spread it over her first two fingers. “Ready?” Joly nodded, trying to relax back against Bossuet.

“What do I do?” asked Bossuet. 

“Just hold him and help him relax, at first… later on you could try to add a finger, too,” Musichetta said, expression just a little wicked. Joly gulped with anticipation.

One of her fingers touched just gently at his hole for a minute, acclimatizing him to the feeling, before it began to slide slowly in. It felt strange and almost wrong, having something inside him, but before he could complain she moved her finger to touch—

“Oh!” he cried out and arched against Bossuet, letting his head fall back against his shoulder. “What was that? it was—“

“I presume you know what the prostate is, my dear Doctor?” she said.

“Yes, but—“ She touched it again. “Oh, stars, that’s good.”

“Are you ready for a second finger?” He nodded, and she slipped it in slowly. The stretch was expected, this time, and Joly was able to breathe through it easily. He turned his head to mouth at Bossuet’s neck, asking for a kiss. 

“Can I try, now?” Bossuet asked. Musichetta nodded and he reached for the tallow, slicking one of his own fingers. “Here you go, Joly,” he said, kissing him and adding the finger at the same time. Joly arched and kissed Bossuet harder, moaning as Musichetta touched his prostate again.

“Here, Bossuet,” Musichetta said. “Feel right here, where my fingertips are—“

“I feel it. Is that his—?”

“Try it and find out,” she said. Bossuet pressed hard on the spot, and Joly gave his loudest cry yet.

“Oh, please, I need something more,” he panted, trying to move down against their fingers. His cock was achingly hard.

“Let’s see if you can take his cock, darling.” Musichetta eased her fingers out and Bossuet’s followed, leaving Joly empty. He felt bereft until her words finally processed. 

“Alright,” he breathed. He lifted himself up, aided by Bossuet’s hands on his hips, and then lowered slowly. Musichetta held Bossuet’s cock in place and he moved down onto it. This was the largest intrusion yet, but it was all the better knowing that this was Bossuet inside him— inside him, in a way he hadn’t even known was plausible a few minutes earlier. “Oh,” he said.

“Look how he stretches you,” said Musichetta, sounding awed. “I’ve got to try that sometime soon.”

“Or, you know, you could have Joly now,” said Bossuet. He sounded strained, and Joly felt a little pride at what he must feel like around Bossuet’s cock.

“What a good idea!” said Musichetta. She leaned back against the foot of the bed and beckoned them toward her. Bossuet thrust twice into Joly, making him cry out, before helping him off so he could climb over Musichetta. “Come here, darling,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. Joly moved into her embrace, positioning his cock at her entrance.

“Can I—?” he tried to ask, not sure if she needed fingers first.

“Go ahead,” she said. She pushed on his back, making him move into her. She was just as tight and hot as before, and a little wetter. “Ohh, that’s good. Pass me a pillow, Bossuet?”

He did, and she put it between herself and the footboard. Finally situated, she beckoned to Bossuet. He leaned over Joly to kiss Musichetta, and Joly felt almost lightheaded watching them kiss over his shoulder. At last, Bossuet regained his place inside Joly, and Joly lost track of what was going on.

He was inside Musichetta, Bossuet was inside him, he was kissing Bossuet, he was kissing Musichetta, they were kissing each other. There were hands everywhere, and Joly could no longer pinpoint which of them was touching him where. All he knew was that his lovers were everywhere, all around him, and that he was about to come.

“Musichetta, I’m—“ he tried to warn her. It was Bossuet who pulled him out of her with a sharp tug on his hips, but he didn’t stop thrusting hard into Joly, and Joly came untouched onto Musichetta, crying out their names. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the mess he’d made.

“That’s alright, darling,” she panted. He tried to make up for it by giving her his fingers, doing his best to match his strokes to the movement of Bossuet inside him. It didn’t really feel good anymore, but he didn’t mind. He could hear the sounds Bossuet was making, and that made it alright. Finally Musichetta came around his fingers and Bossuet came inside him, within moments of each other.

It was gratifying to hear them both call out his name, as well as each others’.

The wave of exhaustion hit him only a moment later, and he flopped back against the bed helplessly. As he drifted asleep, he could feel the two of them gently cleaning him up and then settling on either side of him.

Finally, with Musichetta on one side and Bossuet on the other and love between them all, Joly felt right.


	11. EPILOGUE

“Are you ready?” Joly asked, straightening Bossuet’s cravat.

“Joly, this is the third time you’e asked me that in as many minutes. I’m more concerned about you,” said Bossuet, covering Joly’s hands with his own. At last Joly stopped fidgeting and met Bossuet’s eyes.

“Of course I’m nervous, this is maybe the most important day of my life.” He sighed. “I wish Musichetta were here.”

“Well,” Bossuet said, kissing him lightly, “you know what they say.”

“A watched pot never boils?”

“It’s bad luck for the grooms to see the bride before the wedding.”

As he moved to stand at the front of the church, Joly wanted to be nervous, but it was hard with all his friends there with him. He had the reassurance of Grantaire at his side, well-dressed for once and laughing at his new lover. He had the amusement of Enjolras, having lost a bet to Grantaire, looking exasperated in skirts on the other side of the aisle. He had the support of all the Amis filling up the first few rows of seats.

Most importantly, Joly had Bossuet sitting at the very front, ready for his part in the ceremony, and he had Musichetta standing across from him, glowing in her lovely dress. He looked at them and felt like he might burst with his love for them both.

Joly and Musichetta said a few lines to each other, exchanged rings of entwined white, yellow, and rose gold, and kissed in front of all their friends.

Then the priest beckoned for Bossuet to approach them.

“The chance-changeur Bossuet is to be given a new menotte, as a symbol of the new family to which he belongs,” he said, as Bossuet came near. “Now, custom dictates that I perform the ceremony, but I understand the new Madame is a mage herself?”

Musichetta nodded and smiled widely. She was still holding tightly to Joly’s right hand, the only thing keeping those fingers from trembling with anticipation.

“Therefore I pass this responsibility onto Madame Musichetta Joly.” He handed her a blank, curved band of silver.

Her forehead furrowed in concentration, Musichetta held the silver close to her face and murmured under her breath. Joly took Bossuet’s right hand in his left to bring him close to them, and Bossuet offered his left wrist to Musichetta. When she was done etching with her magic, she placed it on his left wrist with her right hand, completing their circle.

“Let Bossuet’s luck fall where he wills,” she intoned, and the the old silver fell from his wrist. In its place was a powerless menotte with no lettering at all. Looking closely, one might discern patterns of white, yellow, and rose gold in the ring around his arm.

He was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I Don't Think I Made Clear Enough
> 
> None of this is terribly important to the plot, but some of it’s interesting, some of it’s funny, and some of it is just because I felt like I should put it out there even if I couldn’t work it into the story.
> 
>  
> 
> Chance-changeur is a technical term for the ‘species’ so to speak, while charme is a kind of slang/slur mostly used by people who care more about how long the word takes to say than the fact that the word objectifies the people it refers to.
> 
> Bossuet and Musichetta were brought together by Joly, but they love each other just as much as they love him. Also they enjoy the fact that either one of them can literally sweep Joly off his feet.
> 
> Bossuet and Joly never slept together in the Joly house because if they had been discovered, the consequences for Bossuet would have been… well, think what happened to black boys who slept with their white masters’ daughters in the American south.
> 
> You may have noticed the lack of period-appropriate sexism— I figured I had enough discrimination undertones (and overtones) going on. Did you really want to read about people telling badass Musichetta that she needs a man to help her? (i mean, i tried to make her come off that way… )
> 
> I never actually wrote this down, but my headcanons are that Musichetta is Romani by descent if not by culture, Bossuet is darker-skinned though I’m not sure where he’s from, and Joly is a little redheaded white boy.
> 
> Musichetta = rose gold  
> Bossuet= yellow gold  
> Joly= white gold
> 
> Yes, the mages are meant to be caricatures. Except Musichetta, who is counter-mage-culture, and Grantaire, who flips off their esoteric dress code as a whole. He probably studies mage art, which actually sounds like it could be amazing.
> 
> Grantaire totally took Joly’s enviable sex life as a challenge and finally said something to Enjolras, much to the benefit of both. 
> 
> Grantaire is the best man, Enjolras is the reluctant maid of honor.
> 
> They could've done the menotte ceremony thing on their own, but it wouldn't have been legal, and this way no one can question it.


End file.
